


Doorway to Paradise

by TreasureHunter



Series: Les Mis Soulmate AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Barricade Day, Barricade Day 2020, Enjolras works for Social Justice, Established Relationship, M/M, Posted for Barricade Day, Sickfic - Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreasureHunter/pseuds/TreasureHunter
Summary: Enjolras is away from Grantaire for work. At the worst possible moment, their soulbond starts playing up.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Les Mis Soulmate AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878214
Comments: 16
Kudos: 90





	Doorway to Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a sequel to my big Les Mis Soulmate AU that I still need to write, which means this fic contains some references to things that happened previously (and some spoilers as well). That said, it is pretty self-explanatory and mostly just a mess of Enjoltaire relationship drama (but for once no communication issues!), angst and sort-of fluff. The title comes, obviously, from Stars. Enjoy!

New York City is not Paris, but it is wonderful in its own way. Enjolras has been here a little over three and a half weeks now, put up in a single hotel room with Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s suites flanking his on both sides, and close to the building he has most of his meetings.

It is exhilarating to finally, actually be making a change in the world. He’s met people from local government, activist groups, lobbyists, and is preparing to speak in front of thousands at the conference that’ll round up the four-week trip. He is excited and tense and as he looks at himself in the mirror, he sees a thousand little imperfections that he knows won’t be spotted by anybody else.

Dressed in a suit, tie knotted loosely, he leaves his room and knocks at Courfeyrac’s door, who sometimes needs a little bit of encouragement in the morning, before moving over to Combeferre, who opens on his first knock.

“Good morning, Enjolras,” he says as he pushes a mug of steaming black coffee into Enjolras’ hands.

Enjolras inhales the scent and might or might not make a vaguely obscene sound. The corners of Combeferre’s mouth curl upwards as he leads him to the small nondescript sofa. Enjolras flops down and watches over the rim of his mug as Combeferre organizes the papers that clutter the generic hotel desk. It is still too early for intellectual conversation (a rule Enjolras strictly enforces before eight in the morning), but that doesn’t mean they cannot already get started with work.

It takes another twenty minutes before Courfeyrac stumbles in, dressed to the nines but still seemingly asleep. He too accepts his coffee (almost white from the amount of milk he requires in there) as Combeferre pushes some papers to him to peruse.

Only once Courfeyrac wakes up too do they start planning the day. It used to be their daily ritual in university, but once they all got their own apartment the habit disappeared. It is nice, Enjolras thinks, to do this again.

“The conference is in two days. Enjolras, are you finished with your speech?”

Enjolras nods to the paper in question. Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow at the numerous crossings and remarks in the margins, but doesn’t further comment.

“It’s a work in progress,” Enjolras nevertheless feels the need to defend himself.

“I can see that,” Courfeyrac grins. “Though you know you don’t need a paper in order to impress the audience with your revolutionary zeal!”

“You’ve spent too much time with R,” Enjolras groans.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “It’s true, though.”

There’s nothing Enjolras can say to that. He has seen enough playbacks of his speeches, held both at the Musain in front of his friends and during rallies in front of thousands, to know what he looks like when he really gets going. So, ignoring Courfeyrac’s wicked smile for the moment, he turns to Combeferre.

“I’ll finish the text today, so you can go over it tonight if you want?”

“I’d like to. The conference is a major step forward and we all know your tendency to hyperfocus on single issues.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

Combeferre laughs. “I know you can do it. I’m just worried that you won’t have covered half the issues you want to cover when your time’s up.”

Grumbling, Enjolras sits back in his chair, giving Combeferre a side-eye. Combeferre is right, he knows. Why are the speakers’ timeslots only forty-five minutes long anyway? He can speak for hours about the financial issues faced by the unemployed, and has done so on multiple occasions during the Amis meetings.

After they all finished their coffee, they leave for the conference building to help with the setup and grab breakfast on the way. Enjolras takes a bite from his apple, having learned the hard way not to trust American croissants. His phone buzzes with an incoming text and he pulls it out of his pocket with a smile already forming. As expected, the message is from Grantaire, and simply reads _Love you_ , followed by a string of smileys. Immediately he texts an _I love you too_ back, then snaps an image of the street they’re walking on and sends it too. He receives five heart emoticons in reply and despite having been bonded for five years and actually together for three, it still never fails to make his heart flutter.

He falls back behind Combeferre and Courfeyrac on the busy pavement almost automatically, spending the rest of the walk and the better part of the morning texting his boyfriend as he works on refining his speech.

It is just after lunch that it happens, half an hour into a final meeting with all the organizers. Crammed with twenty-something people in a meeting room just a bit too small to hold all of them, Enjolras sits squished in the back between Combeferre and a woman whose name he thinks is Laura Simmons, and who does something in food distribution and shelter management. He is already feeling uncomfortable, and the dry air and high temperature are not helping.

James Monroe, who does logistics and runs many such conferences, is just finishing his talk when Enjolras’ stomach simultaneously seems to fall away and threatens to bring back up the muffin and coffee from breakfast. His muscles feel weak and he is dizzy and he can feel a dull ache spreading around his head.

Enjolras takes a few deep, laborious breaths to calm himself - to calm his body. He knows what this is, has felt it before. And now is definitely not a good time.

The legs of his chair make a screeching noise as he stands and immediately all attention is focused on him. Normally Enjolras enjoys it, for it is much easier to get a point across when people are already looking at you, but when he sees all the surprised faces turned his way he decides that no, he really cannot deal with this right now. So he shrugs off Combeferre’s well-meaning hand and gives a curt nod to Edward Lee, the main organizer, gesturing tersely to his phone.

“Excuse me. I’ve got to make a call.”

Enjolras is aware how strong his accent comes out and Courfeyrac catches his gaze, looking worried. But he does not wait for permission or even a response, and then he’s finally out of the room.

Grantaire’s number is at the top of his contact list simply by virtue of having been used most recently. He’s about to press the call-button next to the capital R, when Grantaire calls him. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, R,” Enjolras begins, but is interrupted immediately.

“You too?” is the first thing Grantaire says when the call connects. He sounds breathless, as if he’s just been punched in the stomach. Enjolras can relate.

He sighs. “Yes, me too.”

The line is silent for a moment.

“What are you going to do?” Grantaire’s voice is timid and painfully unassuming, as if after everything they went through he is still not sure about his place in Enjolras’ life.

He wants nothing more than to be home and hold Grantaire and never let him go again, and that is not just their bond speaking. Enjolras takes a moment to seriously consider it - just pack his things and leave, go to the airport and board the first plane back to Paris, conference be damned. But he is here on business.

“It’s only three more days,” he says instead. There is a lump in his throat and it is difficult to get the words past, but he manages. On the other side of the line, Grantaire swallows a whimper.

“Only three more days,” his boyfriend repeats slowly. “We can do three more days.” Enjolras isn’t sure which of them Grantaire wants to convince.

“Will you be alright?”

“Fuck if I know,” Grantaire grumbles, and Enjolras can just picture him holding his head in his hands. “It’s not like you can just fly over to come cuddle on the couch.” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I know how much that conference means to you, Apollo. Just… be careful, okay? This is only going to get worse until you’re back home, and I don’t want to wake up next to you in a hospital again.”

Enjolras chuckles, even though it is not funny at all. “I promise to take care of myself, if you promise the same.”

“Well, if you put it like that…”

“I do,” Enjolras says firmly. Then, softer, “Call me whenever it becomes too bad, okay?”

“Okay. Now,” Grantaire adds with obviously fake cheer, “go back to whatever world-changing thing you were doing before the universe decided to screw us over once more.”

Enjolras laughs as he disconnects the call. Just having talked to Grantaire already makes him feel a little bit better. Three more days, he tells himself as he walks back to the meeting. He can do this.

He is quiet when he slips back in, but nonetheless again everyone glances his way as he awkwardly manoeuvers through the cramped space back to his chair.

Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre shoot him concerned looks, but with the meeting still ongoing for the next one and a half hour, they say nothing. When, at a little past three, the meeting is finally adjourned, Enjolras is crowded by his two best friends.

“What happened?” For once, Courfeyrac is completely serious as they slip back to familiar French.

Combeferre lays his hand on Enjolras’ head and tuts. “No fever yet, but you do run a bit hot. Who did you have to call so suddenly?”

“R,” Enjolras mumbles into Combeferrre’s arm.

“You looked kinda out of it, man,” Courfeyrac says. “And not in a good way.”

“It’s fine now.” Enjolras waves Combeferre away.

“I’m not so sure about that. You’re still too pale.”

“I’ll take an aspirin.”

“Make sure that you do.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “I worry about you, you know. I always did, with your bloody stubbornness and apparent inability to let anything go. And then that whole thing with R happened, and it was terrible seeing you self-destruct and not being able to do a damn thing.” He leans against Enjolras, a gesture meant as much for Enjolras’ comfort as for his own, reassurance that they’re all still there. “You fainted right in my arms, you know, and you wouldn’t wake up. I thought you’d died.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras murmurs as the familiar guilt makes itself known somewhere near his already upset stomach.

Courfeyrac laughs hollowly. “It’s not your fault. Or, it’s as much your fault as it is Grantaire’s.” He pauses for a moment. “Will you tell us what’s going on? Is this to do with your bond?”

Enjolras hesitates. He and Grantaire had decided not to tell the rest of their friends about their sometimes severe and forced codependency, since it was a private thing between the two of them (and a whole set of doctors, medical specialists and researchers). But Courfeyrac is asking, and Combeferre looks more concerned than he has in the past three years since the Incident.

“I’ll have to ask if R agrees,” Enjolras begins, “but I’d like to tell you.” It is true, he realizes as he says those words. He does want to talk about his bond with someone who is not directly involved, but not an outsider either. “But not here,” he adds, looking around the now mostly-empty conference room. “Tonight, back in the hotel.”

Combeferre nods. “Tonight, then. Will you be okay in the meantime?”

Enjolras laughs. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve had worse.”

Courfeyrac’s face tightens and Combeferre frowns, but they don’t call him out on it.

Enjolras only staggers slightly as he stands and goes in search for an aspirin. He quickly downs the pills with water and sighs in relief when some minutes later the worst of the aches that plague his entire body ebbs away. The rest of the afternoon goes as slow as the morning went fast. Every few minutes Enjolras can’t help but glance at his watch. He makes the calls he has to make and answers whatever questions are fired his way, and finally, finally, the day is done and he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac walk back to their hotel.

The aspirin’s long since lost its magic touch and he feels sore all over, and normally they’d go out for dinner together now but when Courfeyrac suggests a restaurant, Enjolras can feel his insides twist in a decidedly nauseous manner. This, of course, does nothing to quell the concern now plainly visible on his best friends’ faces, but Enjolras can’t find it in himself to care. Not when he feels like he’s just recovering from a severe flu.

Instead they get sandwiches to go from a place not very far from their hotel and then they finally get back to Enjolras’ room. He lets himself fall on the bed and curls into a fetal position. Combeferre sits next to him and strokes his hair, while Courfeyrac does the same for his back.

“Enjolras? Can you tell us what’s going on?”

Enjolras nods. He’d wanted to tell them, but now he’s not sure where to begin. The start, he supposes.

“I texted R, and he said I could tell you,” he says. It’s true. Grantaire short reply wasn’t encouraging, but he didn’t object.

“Has this to do with your bond?” Combeferre’s voice is sharp and the fingers in his hair tighten momentarily, before returning to their soothing rhythm.

“Yes.”

He hears the sharp intake of breath. “Has this happened before?”

“A few times. We’d stay at home and, and touch, and after a few days we’d be okay.” It is funny, actually, how easy it is to tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac everything. While nobody but Grantaire can help with the physical ache and the sheer longing in his chest, he does feel lighter, as if he’s lost a weight he wasn’t even aware he was carrying.

“How come? I’ve never heard about bonded couples suffering like this after they settled their bond.”

Enjolras is silent for a while, mentally debating how much he wants to divulge. In the end, he knows, these are his best friends and won’t spill any of his secrets, so he opts for honesty. “R and I are something of a unique case,” he hears rather than sees Courfeyrac snort at the understatement, “and the doctors think it might be the bond reminding us to remain together. You know, after having abused it so much.”

“Abused?”

“And now it abuses us,” Enjolras whines. He knows he’s whining, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about anything except wanting Grantaire. He wants to be angry, wants to scream about how unfair it is that he cannot even focus on something he’s worked so hard for, but he’s had some serious conversations with Grantaire in the past over this specific topic and he feels guilty about putting his own wants before Grantaire. Again.

He grits his teeth. Only a few days. He can survive this. He will attend the first day of the conference tomorrow, speak on the day after, and then go back home.

“Abused, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac’s voice is penetrating. Enjolras cringes.

“The doctors might’ve said something about having partially ruptured the bond.”

Combeferre stills. “And what does ‘partially ruptured’ mean, Julien Enjolras?” He is not angry, he is boiling. Enjolras can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Combeferre this mad.

“It means that some parts haven’t settled correctly,” Enjolras says with a small voice. He doesn’t like Combeferre being angry. An angry Combeferre goes deadly silent and cold. An angry Combeferre is terrifying.

He looks up to Courfeyrac for help, but while he doesn’t seem furious like Combeferre, there is something even worse on his face: fear.

“Why did you even come to New York when you knew this could happen?”

“We thought it’d be okay!” Enjolras sits up quickly but has to lean against Courfeyrac to make the world stop spinning. “It’s been over six months since it happened. We thought it’d gone away.”

Combeferre sighs and rubs his temples. “I can’t believe you. Though I should’ve known better. This is exactly the kind of stupid shit you and R are famous for.” It takes a lot for Combeferre to start swearing and Courfeyrac lays a warning arm on his shoulders. “I’ll be in my room,” Combeferre says as he stands. He turns halfway, and while still obviously angry, he looks softer now. “Take some more painkillers and try to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he is gone.

Courfeyrac looks after him. “He’ll have calmed down tomorrow.” He turns to Enjolras, suddenly stern. “You should’ve told us.”

“I shouldn’t anything!” Enjolras snaps. “It’s my bond. You don’t even know what a bond feels like.”

Courfeyrac’s face falls, but he keeps smiling nevertheless and Enjolras immediately feels bad. “I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it. You’re right though. I don’t know what a bond feels like.” He is quiet for a moment. “You know, there was a time when we three could tell each other everything, and we all understood.” Courfeyrac’s hand gently touches Enjolras’. “Sometimes I wish things were like they used to be, long ago. When no one of the Amis even knew someone with a soulbond.”

Enjolras’ throat is dry, and he isn’t sure if that is because of his general misery or because of Courfeyrac’s words. “I can’t agree with you,” he croaks, and Courfeyrac smiles.

“Even despite everything?”

Enjolras nods, not trusting his voice. “I wouldn’t give up R for the world.”

“Not even world peace, an end to poverty and social inequality?” Courfeyrac jokes.

“Not even then.” It is strange how true the words are.

Courfeyrac quickly sobers up. “I see,” he murmurs.

“It’s strange,” Enjolras hastens to explain, “before I’d have sacrificed anything for those who need it most, for those who cannot fight for themselves. But now, when I think of even the possibility of Grantaire not being with me, I just… block, I guess. I can’t think, I can’t even imagine it. Is that bad?” His voice comes out small and vulnerable and Enjolras hates it, but he also knows that Courfeyrac is one of the few people who won’t judge him for it. If anything, he looks thoughtful.

“It sounds an awful lot like severe codependency,” Courfeyrac says. Enjolras knows this, has thought about this, has stewed about this, and eventually talked it over with Grantaire as their psychologist suggested, and accepted it. But Courfeyrac doesn’t have to know that.

“I won’t pretend to understand what you and R have,” he says eventually, carefully. “And I don’t mean just the bond. Even before that you were one of a kind together. But he’s been good for you, Enjolras. I’ve seen you laugh more in the last three years than in all the time I’ve known you.”

“Thanks. It means a lot, coming from you.”

Courfeyrac smiles. “Anytime. And now, you need your next dose of aspirin and a long, hot shower. And then you call that ridiculous boyfriend of yours and you go to sleep. It’s early, but god knows you need it.”

Despite his protesting body, Enjolras laughs, full and deep. “Yes, my captain!”

Courfeyrac looks at him strangely for a moment and then he leaves.

Enjolras takes a moment before he drags himself to the bathroom. The hot water relaxes his cramped muscles, but at the same time it stings his skin and he finds himself quickly exiting the shower. Pulling on some old pajamas he may or may not have stolen from Grantaire, he stares at his reflection in the mirror and makes a face. He looks horrible: his cheeks are gaunt, his eyes deep and dull, and it seems all blood has fled his face.

He grabs his phone and falls into the hotel bed, with sheets that smell like generic soap instead of the comforting scent of Grantaire, and without the dip of another body on the mattress. He nevertheless curls into the warmth of the duvet and calls Grantaire.

Despite the six-hour time difference, Grantaire picks up on the first ring. His voice is scratchy, but Enjolras doesn’t think it comes from sleep.

“Hey,” he says, and then, “I love you.”

On the other side of the line Grantaire chuckles softly. “I love you too. And I miss you.”

They are both silent for a while, just listening to each other breathing. Enjolras isn’t sure, but he imagines his stomach settling slightly, feels less cold. “How are you holding up?”

“Do you want the short or the long version?”

“Whichever you want to tell me.” He hears the adorable little pleased sound Grantaire makes and that never fails to make him smile.

“Okay then Apollo. Remember, you asked for this.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, suddenly not wanting to know how bad his soulmate was.

“I feel like shit. Like I’m about to keel over due to alcohol poisoning, like I’ve been struck down by a flu and am about to die.” Grantaire pauses, hesitates. “Like in those days before the hospital.”

Enjolras sucks in a breath and Grantaire laughs. It is not a happy sound. “Don’t worry Apollo, you’ll follow me down the rabbit hole soon enough.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier it was this bad?”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” He knows Grantaire shrugs in that self-deprecating manner that Enjolras absolutely loathes. “Anyway, how did ‘ferre and Courf take the news?” Grantaire asks in an obvious ploy to change the subject. Enjolras lets him, not looking for a fight, not here, not now.

“As well as can be expected of them, I suppose. Combeferre got mad.”

“Combeferre, angry? Damn, I wish I was there to see that.”

Enjolras grins. “No you don’t. Besides, if you were here, he wouldn’t have gotten angry in the first place.”

“Good point. And Courfeyrac?”

“Better. But he’s worried. I hate seeing him worried.”

“Hey, Enjolras. Listen to me. It will be alright, okay? Only tomorrow and the day after, and then you’re coming home and it will be over.”

“You’re right. Get some sleep, okay? You sound like you need it.”

Grantaire snorts, but is interrupted by a hacking cough. “Fuck you too, Apollo.”

Enjolras grins and hangs up. The aspirin is taking effect and he feels not as miserable as before, and he falls asleep quickly.

The next morning dawns bright and clear, and when Enjolras’ alarm goes off it’s all he can do not to throw it against the wall. The incessant beeping echoes through his skull, which feels as if someone took a hammer to it. He feels terrible and he is sweating yet he is cold and shivers wrack his entire body.

But the first day of the conference is today, so Enjolras forces himself out of bed and beelines for the bathroom where he takes another hot shower in a desperate bid to warm up. It helps for a short while, but when he gets out from underneath the warm spray everything comes back with a vengeance.

Enjolras curses a litany of swearwords and puts on the suit with the red shirt. In the mirror he attempts to put his hair back into a semblance of order, but there is nothing he can do to make his face more presentable without Cosette’s and Éponine’s combined make-up collection. He frowns at his reflection but lets it be and crosses the hallway to Combeferre’s room.

For once Courfeyrac is there before him, looking tired but awake.

“You look horrible.”

“Thanks.” His voice is shrill and talking hurts his throat, but he gratefully accepts his coffee from Combeferre.

It is silent for a little while before Combeferre scrapes his throat. “I wanted to apologize for my reaction yesterday,” he says. “It was out line. You and Grantaire have the legal and moral right not to tell us anything.”

Enjolras grabs his hand. “It’s fine.” He pulls Combeferre in a hug.

“I have to say, you’ve become a lot more tactile since you and R cleared things up,” Courfeyrac remarks.

Enjolras makes to pull back, but Combeferre holds him close, shifting into doctor mode. “You’re burning up,” he mutters. He maneuvers a hand to Enjolras’ head ands nods to himself. Enjolras shares a half-panicked look with Courfeyrac, who just shrugs. “As I said, you look horrible.”

After Combeferre forces another dose of painkillers and anti-inflammatories into Enjolras, it’s a fairly normal morning: they drink their coffee, talk about the day, about which speakers and workshops they’re most excited about, all the while ignoring Enjolras’ visible shivers.

When they leave, Enjolras grabs an extra sweater and pulls it on underneath his coat while leaning on Courfeyrac to maintain his balance. He doesn’t buy breakfast because the mere thought of food makes him nauseous.

“You’ve got a fever,” Combeferre states once again, worried, but Enjolras waves him off. He’s worked hard and long to make this international conference happen, and he’s not going to miss it because a bond makes him sick.

It’s dangerous thinking, he knows it is, but this time it’s not stupid stubbornness that keeps him and Grantaire apart. Besides, it’s only two more days before he’ll go home; surely the bond can survive that, after one and a half year apart?

He wants to call Grantaire, hear his voice and be assured by him that he’s made the right choice, but they’re almost at the conference center and there is no time.

The opening speech by Edward Lee has Enjolras paying attention, partly helped by his excitement at the turnup of influential people. He’s finally making a real change in the world, and the realization is almost overwhelming.

There are a number of short talks, including one by the now confirmed Laura Simmons, and then there’s lunch. Enjolras studies the program, despite having created it. In the afternoon there will be workshops followed by an informal evening session. Tomorrow there will be some practical applications, and then he’ll perform the closing speech. It’s finished now, neatly typed out and printed in duplicate.

Grantaire would be proud of those, he thinks. Grantaire always says he needs to have clean paper in order to have a clean mind. Enjolras knows for a fact Grantaire prefers scribbled margins and doodles between lines, and Grantaire is a hypocrite but he already knows Grantaire believes in nothing and argues everything.

The third talk finishes and the round of applause yanks Enjolras from his thoughts. He coughs, loudly, and Courfeyrac reaches for a bottle of water while Combeferre takes his temperature again.

“You’re not well,” he whispers intently.

“I can’t just leave,” Enjolras whispers back hoarsely, and he is aware how scandalized he sounds, but it is true: he cannot walk away from something he put so much effort in, something that stands a real chance of helping people who need it most.

He takes a sip of the water Courfeyrac hands him, and sneaks in two more aspirins while he’s at it. In this way, he survives till the lunch break, served in buffet-style. Enjolras had initially protested against the opulence of it, but acquiesced upon both Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s insistence that in the long run it’d mean more compliance with the presented plans.

Enjolras doesn’t know how exactly he makes it to the lunch break. He thinks he might’ve nodded off for a few minutes, leaning on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, but the rest of it escapes him. He leans against a table near the wall, out of the way and in enough of a corner nobody will come and make small talk. Courfeyrac attempts to feed him some soup he’d gotten from one of the buffet tables, assisted by Combeferre, but Enjolras knows that anything he eats will come back up again.

His phone rings, the familiar notes of the Marseillaise never failing to lift his spirit, and without looking at the caller ID, he picks up. He’d assumed it was Grantaire; the rest of his friends and colleagues know he’s here and focused and won’t appreciate any distractions. They don’t know he’s sick, unless somebody told them and he trusts Combeferre and Courfeyrac enough not to spill.

So when he expects to hear Grantaire’s voice (the most beautiful voice he’s ever heard, his mind supplies, but he knows that’s just the bond talking), it comes as a surprise to hear Éponine on the other side of the line.

“Come back to Paris, you bastard,” she greets him, but even he hears the concern underneath her harsh words. They’ve never been close, but they respect each other enough to work well together.

“R’s not doing well, no matter what he tells you, and if I learned anything from that debacle three years ago, you’re not well either. So do the both of you a favour and hop on the next plane across the Atlantic.”

Enjolras tries to get a word in edgewise, but she’s hung up.

“That was Éponine,” he states to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “She said Grantaire wasn’t well.” It’s only once he’s spoken the words out loud that they really sink in. Grantaire isn’t well. He knew that already, but for Éponine to call it has to be very bad. And he remembers, once again, how much worse Grantaire had been during their fling on the hospital’s IC ward.

How much worse would he be now?

“You should go home,” Combeferre suggests, not for the first time.

Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s only one more day. I have to see this through.”

“Enjolras.” Courfeyrac’s voice is gentle. “You can barely stand. Your voice is almost gone. How will you deliver your speech tomorrow, keeping in mind you’re only going to get worse?”

“But I have to,” he implores. “I just can’t leave now. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Enjolras, you won’t. Face it. Staying here is not helping anyone.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Combeferre sighs. “I just don’t want to see you end up in a coma again.”

“You won’t,” Enjolras promises.

Lunch ends and the workshops begin. They’d chosen to attend them together, to immediately get some practical brainstorming done for when they’re back in Paris, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac do most of the work while Enjolras struggles to pay attention. He is cold as well, despite the extra sweater, while many of the other attendees have rolled up their sleeves against the heat.

Enjolras downs another aspirin against his headache and his fever and the general nastiness his bond seems determined to enforce upon his body, and he drinks some water. He’s not hungry, despite having eaten nothing since the previous evening. He still tries to make notes, but the words buzz around his head and he loses them before they make sense. He glances over at the clock and watches the minutes tick by.

Even Enjolras can see how going back to the hotel and skipping the informal evening program is a good idea. When Combeferre and Courfeyrac offer to go with him, though, he cannot help but protest vehemently. If he’s not going to be there himself, he needs at least his two most trusted supporters in his cause for justice there to garner all support and new allies that they can.

He makes his way back to the hotel alone and only once he’s locked the door behind him and falls on the bed, does he allow himself to seriously consider the thought of going back to Paris. It’s not himself he is concerned for; he knows he can survive for another few days like this, no matter what Combeferre says. But Grantaire, who has always been more susceptible to these things than him ever since their stint in the hospital, is suffering too. Enough for Éponine to deem it necessary to call him to come home.

Enjolras bites his lip, the sensation a distraction from the general misery. He wasn’t lying when he told Courfeyrac he would do anything for Grantaire. But it was only one more day of the conference, and the day after he’d go home.

He sends his customary _Love you_ goodnight text and curls underneath the covers, trying to ignore the guilt in his stomach.

The night passes in a haze that is not quite awake, not quite asleep, but instead populated with fever dreams that he doesn’t remember when Courfeyrac and Combeferre knock on his door.

“Enjolras?” he hears, and he half considers ignoring them. But he manages to sit up, and, wrapping all blankets around him, he stumbles over to the door to let his two best friends in.

It takes less than five second for Combeferre to proclaim him in no state to attend the conference and for once, Enjolras does not disagree. He is sweating and shivering and everything is cold and he feels like he’ll be sick any time. In addition, his skin stings and his muscles ache and his head feels like somebody took a hammer to it. His nose is congested and every few minutes he is wracked by coughs that barely subside before the next one arrives.

Still, he tries to drink his coffee and with help manages to put on some decent-looking clothes. Combeferre purses his lips but doesn’t say anything, and from that Enjolras garners he’s already said all he wanted on the topic and whatever Enjolras chooses to do next will be his own fault. Not that Combeferre won’t be there to pick up the pieces. Courfeyrac is uncharacteristically silent and seems to share Combeferre’s sentiment, but instead of withdrawing he helps Enjolras with whatever he needs.

They don’t talk much that morning and it feels uneasy, but Enjolras is too tired to pay it much mind. By the time lunch arrives, Enjolras can barely stand and he needs the support of Courfeyrac to even walk to the same corner they’d occupied yesterday.

“You really cannot give your speech like this,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras nods, finally forced to admit that drive and ambition are not enough to keep him going when his body protests. His hand crumples his speech, tucked away deep in his pocket. Reluctantly he pulls it out and tries to smooth the paper, but his hand shakes too much for it to be very effective.

“What’s that?”

“My speech.” Enjolras has to pause as he coughs. “Finished and written out and neat.” He pushes it towards Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras?”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You do it. You’re both right, I can’t go on stage like this.” Saying the words out loud feels definitive and he has to swallow and blink against the tears that suddenly try to break free. Everything he’d worked so hard for, for months, and now he cannot even see it through.

He’s suddenly hugged by both Combeferre and Courfeyrac and it feels nice, but also wrong on the fundamental level that they are not Grantaire. It is the same feeling he’d had more and more during Grantaire’s absence, years ago, and this more than anything strengthens his resolve and tells him he’s made the right decision.

“Jesus, do you really think I can deliver this with half as much impact as you?” Courfeyrac exclaims when he’s let go of Enjolras. He reads the speech open-mouthed and Combeferre elbows him hard between the ribs. “I mean, I’m sure I can scrape together as much revolutionary fervor to do you justice.” He grins.

“Where is Lee?”

Combeferre looks out over the crowd, but it is Courfeyrac who spots him. “Over there, at the drinks table.”

Enjolras follows his gaze and nods to himself, gathering the strength he needs to cross the thirty or so meters to the other side of the hall.

They attract the attention of many of the attendees, expressions ranging from concerned to plain curious, as Enjolras, again supported by his friends, transverses the hall. Edward Lee looks up from where he’s conversing with an important-looking man as they approach.

“Enjolras!” he exclaims, managing to pronounce every single letter wrong. Still, his concern is genuine and Enjolras forces a smile that feels more like a grimace.

“Are you alright? You’ve seemed a little… off, these past few days.”

Now that he’s made his decision, Enjolras wastes no time on pleasantries. “Mr Lee, I regret to inform you I cannot give my speech.”

“You… cannot?” Lee’s eyes quickly glance over Enjolras. “But we’re starting in half an hour!”

Enjolras nods. “I know. Courfeyrac shall take my place, with your permission of course. He is an excellent speaker and knows what I wanted to say.”

The man next to Lee coughs lightly. “It’s not very professional to cancel last-minute like this.”

“Apologies,” Enjolras says stiffly, already not liking the man. “Believe me, if I could, I would remain.”

“Where are you going?” There is just the slightest hint of accusation in Lee’s voice.

“Back to Paris.” From the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a look.

“Why?”

Enjolras is sick, irritated, and just wants to be with Grantaire. He has no patience for an interrogation. “None of your business.” In any other situation he’d care about how this hurts his prospects, about alienating someone who had up till now nothing but an amiable colleague. Now, however, he pulls himself free from Courfeyrac’s supporting grip and half runs, half falls towards the exit.

He hears Combeferre do damage control: “You have to forgive him, Mr Lee. It’s to do with his soulbond.” Combeferre has a way of explaining things that doesn’t really explain anything at all, but makes you feel that he has. In this case it doesn’t work. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the soulbond scandal that was in the news some years ago?” Combeferre elaborates reluctantly. “Enjolras was part of that.”

Enjolras doesn’t hear the understanding noises that always follow when he has to explain his circumstances, since he’s out of the building and back in the street. The sun shines, and he downs another dose of painkillers as he makes his way back to the hotel, throws everything in his suitcase and checks out.

Normally he’d take public transport out of principle, but he simply cannot wait any longer and hails a taxi to the airport. The drive is silent, and once they’re there he pays the driver in his last dollars. The airport, predictably, is crowded and Enjolras has to push his way through to the service desks. There he finds out that the last plane to Paris has just left, but that he can fly via London, and after a heartfelt groan he takes it. The line for baggage is endless and Enjolras leans heavily on his suitcase while he still has it. Then there’s another line for security and passport check, and then he can finally let himself fall into an uncomfortable airport couch as he waits for his flight to London to board.

It takes another two hours in which he tries to read, but he cannot concentrate on the words nor on the story and after a few minutes he gives that up. He wants to call Grantaire, to hear his voice and tell him he’s coming home, but when he looks for his phone he discovers he’s left it in his suitcase and is now unreachable until he lands in Paris. Defeated he settles down to wait, trying to find a position that is not too uncomfortable.

Finally, he has to go to the gate and he almost cries when he lets himself fall down in the too-small airplane seat. He’s got a windowseat and Enjolras thinks about how much Grantaire would love the view.

He immediately ruffles through the compartment for the sickbag, keeping it within easy reach just in case. He notices how the people around him scoot away, as if he’s got something contagious. When they finally ascend, he thinks, he can at least blame it on the turbulence. He does his best to ignore the stares and tries to sleep. It doesn’t work as everything hurts and more than once a flight attendant comes over asking if there’s anything they can do for him. Enjolras waves them all away and curls inside his jacket, staring at the ocean down below.

He doesn’t want to feel so weak, so ill, but he knows it’s his own fault he is like this. Worse, that Grantaire is like this, too. And that, Enjolras thinks, is the most insidious part of the bond. He wouldn’t change their bond for anything in the world, but he curses the connection that hurts Grantaire. He is exhausted, though, and when the plane touches down in Heathrow Airport he needs to take a few deep breaths before even attempting standing up.

Downing some more aspirin, he dazedly follows the signs for his transfer. He has no idea what time it is anymore, the different timezones and the jetlag having make him lose all sense of it. He sits in the next plane and tries to think about nothing as it rises and lands, and then he’s back in France, in Paris.

He doesn’t know whether the bond somehow knows he’s close, or that it is a purely psychological reaction, but now that Grantaire is so near he finds reserves of energy he didn’t know he had. He waits for his baggage, suddenly impatient, suddenly in the thrills of a fever as he hasn’t been before.

Once his suitcase comes into view he wastes no time in hauling it off the belt and leaving the airport. It is dark outside, but he flags down another taxi and gives him his address. Their address.

He doesn’t even remember the phone that’s now within reach, doesn’t even think about calling or texting, and when the car sometime later drives down his familiar street, throwing concerned glances to the back every now and again, Enjolras finally notices the tears streaming down his face.

He barely remembers to pay the driver as he makes his way up the stairs to their shared apartment. Standing in front of his door, with Grantaire on the other side, so close after four weeks apart, he has to take a moment to collect himself. He puts his key in the lock and opens the door.

It is dark inside and Enjolras stumbles through the hallway, suitcase forgotten on the threshold, Nothing matters anymore, nothing except getting to Grantaire.

He vaguely realizes that due to the still-unknown hour, Grantaire is probably sleeping, so he makes his way to the bedroom. The bed is empty when he arrives, the covers still neatly folded and for just a moment Enjolras is confused, distracted.

Then a horrid sound he barely recognizes as a cough comes from the living room. No lights are lit there either, but Enjolras sees that the curtains are still open and the moonlight is just enough to distinguish a silhouette lying on their large couch.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes, barely standing, and the silhouette moves and Grantaire’s face appears from underneath a pile of blankets.

“Enjolras?” he asks, and his voice breaks on the second syllable and the rest comes out as a hoarse whisper and then Enjolras is there, holds him in his arms, and suddenly the world feels right again. He doesn’t suddenly feel better and neither does Grantaire, but things make sense now that they’re together and touching.

He manoeuvers them both back down onto the couch, pressing close together. For a moment he just breathes in Grantaire’s scent, smoke and alcohol and sweat and fever, and then he puts a hand to his forehead while Grantaire does the same to him.

“You’re sick,” he worries.

Grantaire chuckles. “So are you.”

“No hospital this time, though.”

“No. You came back just in time.” Grantaire whispers softly, reverently, the tiny thread of wonder makes Enjolras’ eyes sting once more.

“I’ll always come back for you.” He feels rather than sees Grantaire’s smile in his neck.


End file.
